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March 3, 2017 | by  | in Poetry |
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dried flowers

 

I am walking in circles besides square windows:

you do not stay to hear my answers.

 

Space never knew the balance between apologies and presence.

Plates find their way to the dishwasher, tucked

 

beside each other down the bank.

The plateau of two conversations that meet their end,

 

get tangled, walk apart,

tingly fingers, clank of glass, wisp of hair.

 

The polite balance of wind and warmth,

walls of artwork that perform before my eyes.

 

Who are you,

the synth and hazy lavender that makes movement murky?

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